The Indian: On the Battle-Field and in the Wigwam. Frost John

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      On reaching home, Ewing wrote an account of the affair, and sent it to Lancaster for publication. Through neglect, however, it was not published for two years afterwards; but it was then seen by Mr. Slocum, of Wilkes-barre, the little boy who had been saved by the girl, sixty years before. He immediately started for Indiana, accompanied by the sister who had saved him, at the same time writing to his brother to meet him at the wigwam. The incidents connected with this visit have been preserved, and are interesting.

      On entering the cabin, they beheld an Indian woman, apparently seventy-five years old, painted and jewelled. Yet her hair was as the agent had described it, and her skin beneath her dress appeared white. They obtained an interpreter and began to converse. We may imagine the feelings of the little party, while they listened to the Indian wo-an’s tale. The incidents of the assault and capture—too well known already—were disclosed with a faithfulness which left no room for doubt. “How came your nail gone?” inquired the sister. “My elder brother pounded it off when I was a little child in the shop.”

      “What was your name then?” She did not remember. “Was it Frances?” She smiled on hearing the long-forgotten sound, and promptly answered, “Yes.” All were now satisfied that they were of one family, and yet there was little joy in that meeting. There was a sadness, not merely through remembrance of the past, but of a kind present, deep, painful; for though the brothers were walking the cabin unable to speak, and the sister was sobbing, yet there sat the poor Indian sister, no throb of emotion disturbing her equanimity.

      Her previous history may soon be told. It was the Delaware tribe who had taken her captive, and when she grew up among them, she married one of their chiefs. He died or deserted her, and she then married a Miami. She had two daughters, who both grew up and married Indians. They all lived in one cabin. The brothers and sisters tried to persuade their sister to return with them, and, if she desired it, to bring her children. She answered that she had always lived with the Indians; that they had always been kind to her; that she had promised her late husband, on his death-bed, never to leave them, and that promise she was resolved to keep. The three generous relatives then retraced their steps, sorrowing that they were compelled to leave their sister in the wilderness.

      The Indian sister died in 1847. Her manners and customs were those of the Indians until her death, yet she was admired alike by the red and white men. Her grave is on a beautiful knoll, near the confluence of the Mis-sissiniwa and the Wabash, a spot which had been her residence for nearly thirty years.

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PARENTAL AFFECTION.

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      URING the frequent wars between the Indians and the early settlers of New England, the former defeated a party of English soldiers. Their retreat was without order; and a young English officer, in attempting to escape, was pursued by two savages. Finding escape impracticable, and determined to sell his life as dearly as possible, he turned round to face his foes. A violent struggle commenced, and he must have fallen, if an old chief had not thrown himself between the combatants. The red men instantly retired with respect. The old man took the young officer by the hand, dispelled his fears, and led him through the forest to his wigwam, where he treated him with the greatest kindness. He seemed to take pleasure in the youth’s company; he was his constant companion; he taught him his language, customs, and arts. Thoughts of home would sometimes haunt the young Englishman. At these times, Wanou would survey his young friend attentively, and the tears would fill his eyes.

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      When the spring returned, the war was renewed, and Wanou whose strength was still sufficient to bear the toils of war, set out with the rest of the braves, and his white prisoner.

      When the Indians arrived in sight of the English camp, Wanou showed the young officer his countrymen, observing his countenance the while. “There are thy brethren,” said he, “waiting to fight us. Listen to me. I have saved thy life. I have taught thee to make a canoe, and bow and arrows; to hunt the bear and the buffalo; to bring down the deer at full speed, and to outwit even the cunning fox. What wast thou when I first led thee to my wigwam? Thy hands were like those of a child; they served neither to support nor to defend thee; thou wert ignorant, but from me thou hast learned every thing. Wilt thou be ungrateful, and raise up thy arm against the red man?”

      The young man declared with warmth that he would rather lose his own life than shed the blood of his Indian friends. The old warrior covered his face with his hands, bowed his head and remained in that posture for some time, as if overcome by some painful recollection. Then with a strong effort, he said to the young man, “Hast thou a father?”

      “He was living,” said the young man, “when I left my native country.”

      “Oh! how fortunate he is still to have a son!” cried the Indian; and then, after a moment’s silence, he added, “Knowest thou that I have been a father; but I am no longer so! I saw my son fall in battle; he fought bravely by my side; my son fell covered with wounds, and he died like a man! but I revenged his death; yes, I revenged his death!”

      Wanou pronounced these words with a terrible vehemence; but at length he became calm, and turning towards the east, where the sun had just risen, he said, “Young man, thou seest that glorious light—does it afford thee any pleasure to behold it?”

      “Yes,” replied the officer, “I never look upon the rising sun without pleasure, or without feeling thankful to our great father who created it.”

      “I am glad thou art happy, but there is no more pleasure for me,” said Wanou. A moment after, he showed the young man a shrub in full bloom, and said, “Hast thou any pleasure in beholding this plant?”

      “Yes, great pleasure,” replied the young man.

      “To me, it can no longer give pleasure,” said the old man; and then embracing the young Englishman, he concluded with these words, “Begone! hasten to thy country, that thy father may still have pleasure in beholding the rising sun, and the flowers of spring.”

      Poor chief; the death of his beloved son had broken his heart.

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